


Headrush

by dramaticbanjo



Category: Magic: The Gathering
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4656372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramaticbanjo/pseuds/dramaticbanjo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tibalt's been having some odd dreams lately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Headrush

Tibalt had a lot of nightmares, although sometimes they didn’t seem to be entirely his own--warped memories of Innistrad, of his own victims and then people he didn’t recognize, of the demons’ minds that he had bonded with bleeding into his own dreams.

For the most part, however, they didn’t stay in his mind very long--there were more planes to discover and more ways to make whomever he caught writhe in pain, and that took up much more of his mind than whatever he dreamed about. 

But there were sometimes other things he saw in dreams--the few years of peace Innistrad had while the angels appeared, the few times when it had seemed his studies into necromancy had been enough for him, and a pale, beautiful face that he could never see clearly. 

One night as he sat beside the remains of his latest “experiment”, he idly traced the outline of what he could remember with one finger, using the cooling blood as ink on the surface of the rough wooden table. 

He hadn’t drawn anything in a long time, and the doodle was little more than a messy outline, but he still regarded it with a bored, amber eye.

“Not so bad, is it?” 

The corpse taking up the rest of the table didn’t respond, though he had long since stopped expecting them to, and returning to trying to touch up the portrait with extra smears of blood. 

“...Well, I suppose I should get going now.” He pulled himself up, and then glanced back down at the drawing, absently wiping his hand on his already-bloodstained jacket, “Perhaps I’ll see them sometime.” The thought of meeting the person of his dreams--if they did exist, but he knew that his grasp of reality could get tenuous at times--he whistled merrily to himself, boots clicking against the wood floor before making dull squelches when he walked through more pools of blood. Pausing by the door, he took a hat off of the rack, set it at a jaunty angle on his head as best he could with his short horns, and then set off into the night. 


End file.
